


Frostbitten

by thedropoutandthejunkie (elenajames)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-09 22:13:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3266273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenajames/pseuds/thedropoutandthejunkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Gadreel have their demons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frostbitten

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [SPN Rare OPT Fic-A-Month Challenge.](http://otpfic-a-month.livejournal.com/)  
> This months prompt was Winter/Cold.

Cold. Dark. Those two things pervade all of his senses. There should be pain, he thinks. Fear, maybe. But the bitching ache of cold overrides everything, and the darkness drowns it. His chains burn frigidly into his skin, the faint metallic clank echoing in the void with every breath. No matter how hard he strains, there are no other sounds to be heard, no indication of the others who occupy the cage with him. He closes his eyes, accepting it for the reprieve it probably isn’t meant to be, and hoping that maybe he’ll freeze to death in his sleep.

 

Impossible, of course. A scream rends the silence to shreds, a flare of light blinding him, and the freshest of his wounds reopen as he thrashes, blind and panicked.

 

“Adam!” he tries to yell, not that it will do either of them any good. Chapped lips crack and bleed, and his voice is weak and hoarse from screaming already. His yell ends on a sob, the despair in his voice an echo of his younger brother’s. He can see little beyond the light of the flames that Michael favors so much, eyes too used to the darkness.

 

“You’re a mess, Sam,” Lucifer says idly behind him. “Perhaps some cleaning is in order.”

 

There’s no room to protest or brace himself between one breath and the next before icy water douses his body. In mere moments, it crystallizes on his skin and in his hair and his body shivers violently, teeth chattering. He shuts his eyes tightly, grinding his jaw to keep from begging, and shoving away the small part of him that wonders if burning would be better, because he already knows it’s not.

 

* * *

 

Sam gasps awake, panting up at the dark motel room ceiling. Cold leeches in where he’s disturbed the blankets, and it sends goosebumps skittering across his skin. Gritting his teeth, he throws himself out of bed and shakes Dean awake. The other man is bleary and confused at first, but curses lowly when the chilled air in the room hits his skin. Wordlessly, they throw on shoes and coats and rush to the room next door.

 

* * *

 

 

Cold. Dark. Those two things are his only constants, besides the pain. Chained as they are behind him, his wings cannot shield his eyes from the intensity of the light or give reprieve from the aching cold. Links dig in to old and open wounds, the spaces between yanking and twisting his feathers to ruin. Faint clinking reaches his ears, in sync with the shuddering and gasps of his neighbor.

 

“Abner,” he whispers, trying to sound as soothing as he can. He only gets a whimper in return.

 

Scorching light suddenly fills his cell, heralding the arrival of Thaddeus. He scrambles backwards despite the pain that wants to make him write as he pushes his damaged back and wings against the wall of the cell. There is nothing to be done, though, to halt the approach of his torturer or to deflect the sharp arc of the blade that slices its way across his chest.

 

“None of that, now,” Thaddeus hisses when he raises his hands in a bleak attempt to protect himself. “Accept the punishment for your crime, Gadreel.”

 

Searingly cold grace forces his body flat against the wall and every part of his being alights in agony. It arcs along the chains around him, sending violent shocks through his wings and twinging down into his very core. He cannot help but scream, voice piercing the quiet that pervades this row of cells. Briefly, he wonders if he should have followed Lucifer in his fall, but he knows that it is far too late.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He jerks awake, only instinct keeping him from crying out in shock. There’s a warm hand on his shoulder, a sharp contrast to his own cold skin, but it’s withdrawn quickly at his movement. Cold fills the room; apparently, the heat in the crappy motel they’ve been staying in has gone out again.

 

“Sam?” he murmurs into the dark, recognizing the silhouette of the figure standing over him.

 

Sam understands what he’s asking and gestures to the other bed, where the dark outline of Dean is settling in next to a sleepily mumbling Cas. Gadreel nods and shifts over to make room for the other man, shivering as he moves from his body heat-warmed spot onto a cooler portion of the sheets. Sam pulls him close, settling them tightly together and they both sigh in relief at the warmth and contact. They yank at the blankets, pulling the fabric up enough to cover their shoulders, but not enough to expose their feet; it’s a delicate balancing act for two men their size.

 

As cold as the room is, Gadreel is not surprised at the course his dreams had taken. In his time on earth, he has quickly learned that he despises the cold and winter. A secret, shameful part of him is grateful that Sam holds the same type of loathing, in contrast to their brothers who seem to enjoy the wintery mess. The other man has not spoken much about his time in the cage with Lucifer and Michael, only enough to relay the horror of the experience and the guilt he feels at having escaped.

 

Now, though, it is painfully evident that Gadreel was not the only one plagued by cold-induced nightmares tonight. Sam is trembling - trembling, not shivering - in his arms, and guilt thrums through him. Carefully, he sneaks a hand under Sam’s shirt, caressing his back. He’s only slightly surprised when Sam does the same to his chest.

 

“You’re shaking,” Sam whispers, warm breath ghosting over Gadreel’s face.

 

“As are you,” Gadreel answers. It’s enough confirmation for Sam, who makes a soft noise of discontent in his throat. A minute shift brings their foreheads together. They both feel safer like this, warm and close. Their brothers are already snoring in the other bed, and Sam has a brief moment to wonder why they bother with the pretense before sleep drags him under.

 

 


End file.
